


Look what you did to my brother.

by meggotheeggo



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bad Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insane Wilbur Soot, Mentioned Ghostbur - Freeform, Mentioned HBomb94, Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Wilbur Soot, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, Resurrection, Slightly - Freeform, Swearing, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, c!phil do be kinda a shit dad tho, description of injury, in the second chapter, wilbur gets revived and is pissed at everyone who hurt tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28768713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggotheeggo/pseuds/meggotheeggo
Summary: "Let's get you inside, yeah? It's freezing, Toms." Wilbur receives a small nod and a ghost of a smile for his efforts. He begins leading Tommy through the front door of his dirt house, while a single thought pushes itself to the forefront of his mind.He's going to fucking murder whoever did this to his brother.OR, a collection of events prior to Wilbur's resurrection. Safe to say, he's pissed at whoever hurt Tommy
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 84
Kudos: 1411





	1. Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is an idea me and my friend came up with where wilbur gets resurrected and is half l'manberg wilbur (in his determination and care), and half pogtopia wilbur (in the way his mind is altered and still slightly broken), and he's pissed at everyone for hurting tommy :^)

The first thing Wilbur does post resurrection (after getting a glass of water for his parched throat and some fucking rest, because _jesus,_ being brought back to life is exhausting, apparently.) is set off to find Tommy. He leaves Phil with a glare, and the bitterest words he can muster in his slightly delirious state when his father questions where he's going. "I'm going to look after my little brother," He replies, malice staining his voice. "Since you clearly don't care enough to try." He doesn't stick around enough to see the effect of his words, but he hopes, _prays_ , that the weight of them stays heavy over Phil's head all day. Hell, he hopes _Technoblade_ can feel it when he returns, maybe even Dream if the bastard is still associating with them. Fuck them. Fuck them all. _He told Tommy no one was on their side._

As he's leaving, he unlocks the gate to Technoblade's horse stable, just for good measure, and really, it's not _Wilbur's_ fault if the horse decides to leave.

He makes his way through the Nether as quickly as possible, being extremely wary of the way Tommy's cobblestone path twists and turns unpredictably, like it's writhing in pain. Something tells him that the Nether was anything but a place of comfort for Tommy. Something tells him of pain, of anguish, the feeling of losing everything you've ever considered important. Wilbur makes a mental note to ask Tommy about it later, and swiftly moves on.

Stepping through the Nether portal without hesitation, he emerges in the DreamSMP lands. A second too late, he realises that it's _raining_ , and the drops fall onto his skin in quick succession, bringing their torrent down on him. Instinctively, he flinches, bracing himself for the hissing sting, waiting to watch the grey of his fingers drip to the blackstone beneath his feet, but the pain never comes. There is no sting. There is no dripping. There's just...rain. Wilbur allows himself a moment, standing there in the downpour, to remind himself that he's human. He's _alive_ . A whisper of a smile graces his face, and it remains there until he catches sight of HBomb walking towards Eret's castle, shield held above his head as if he thinks it's doing _anything_ to protect him from the rain. Not for the first time since his awakening, and certainly not the last (Wilbur is counting on it), his gaze hardens into a glare. HBomb was there that day. When all hell broke loose. HBomb chose to fight against them. HBomb _chose_ to destroy their country. _HBomb chose to hurt Tommy._

Wilbur storms through the remains of the community house, and walks in the opposite direction of the man, heading straight towards the little dirt shack he knows resides at the end of the wooden path. It's been a while since he's visited Tommy's small home, alive or dead. He wonders if it's still the L'Manberg Embassy, which seems pretty stupid seeing as L'Manberg no longer exists. Really, it's always been _TommyInnit Enterprise_ . No matter the large number of changes it's undergone in its time here. _The next person to grief Tommy's base will pay._

He makes his way up the wooden stairs next to the Tar-gay ( _That's new, wasn't that a Walmart?_ ) and past Tommy's Power Tower ( _Tommy's building skills have always amused him._ ) to find his little brother sitting on his bench alone, drenched in rain water, blank stare focused somewhere along the horizon line in front of him. There is no sunset, there is no Tubbo, and there is no disc. _Everything_ about the scene before him is wrong, and that fact alone is what keeps Wilbur there for a little while longer. Observing. Contemplating. Everyone watches Tommy, but no one ever stops to observe. Sometimes, Wilbur takes pride that no one knows the real TommyInnit. No one but _him_ . And he knows, right now, that the kid sat before him is _not_ Tommy. 

This Tommy is a far cry from the Tommy he used to know. The Tommy who would steal his shit and blame it on Tubbo. The Tommy who would beg Wilbur to play "Just one more song, Wilby, _please_ ?". The Tommy who screamed and shouted and swore at his enemies, his friends, his family. The Tommy he would carry on his shoulders when his tiny legs got tired. The Tommy who would hide in Wilbur's bed during thunderstorms, his small hand curled around Wilbur's own. His Tommy, his little brother, his right hand man, his Vice President, is buried deep in the back of his own mind, buried under years of trauma and betrayal. Subdued, beaten down, _abandoned_. Wilbur knows he's partially to blame for that. He hates himself for it. 

He thinks back to something he'd heard Quackity say, just after the war, when Ghostbur had been looking for Tommy. He asked if anyone had seen his brother, to which the beanie wearing man replied, "He's a little...sad, right now, Ghostbur." The ghost had promptly disappeared, shoving some blue into Tommy's hands the second he found him.

 _Sad_ . He thinks. _Tommy is so, so much more than sad._

Sad isn't a word Wilbur thinks he can even _begin_ to apply to Tommy. The feeling is too shallow, too surface level, far too much of an understatement for his traumatised little brother. Tommy...Tommy is _desolate_. Wilbur knows it's the right word by the way his whole body shakes when it crosses his mind. His hands don't stop shaking for minutes after.

A memory that he's able to recall from his time as Ghostbur comes to mind, floating to the forefront of his scrambled thoughts. _Desolate_ . The word is engraved into the wooden floor of Tommy's small tent. Each day, a new word or phrase is added to the oak planks. Carved with what, Ghostbur doesn't know. He doesn't think it important enough to question. ( _He does think it's important. He knows, but any attempt to think any harder about it leaves him wondering what he was questioning in the first place. What did he come into the tent for, again?_ ) The words get increasingly more concerning as the days pass by. They're messily carved, letters shaky and barely legible, as if Tommy is desperately trying to send a message to whoever will listen. A cry for help in a place where no one wants to hear him. It was such a simple memory for Ghostbur, but even the slightest thought of it makes Wilbur feel sick to his stomach.

_I'm so alone. Pain. Alone. Wasting away. Depressed. Desolate. I'm nearly over. I can't any longer._

Wilbur thinks if he were to travel back to Logstedshire, those same words would still be there, although the tent and its foundations are nothing but rubble and singed cloth. The words are burned into the craters of Logstedshire and its surrounding areas. The words hang in the smell of smoke and gunpowder that still blankets the land even weeks after. The words are up high, several meters above the clouds, balancing precariously on the top of a thin, hastily made tower.

The words reside in Tommy's heart, buried deep under repression and the loud personality he displays to everyone around him.

Quietly, Wilbur takes a single step forward. He thinks he'll pain himself by breaking the silence.

"Tommy?"

The boy in question flinches like he's been hit, turning to Wilbur with his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Wilbur watches his brother's face fill with confusion, then realisation, then elation. Before he knows it, Tommy is on his feet and running into his arms, face smashing into Wilbur's chest. The older man takes no time in wrapping the younger boy in a tight embrace, holding Tommy's head to his chest protectively, shielding him from the world and its evils, from the winds and the rain. He feels it. Tommy shaking and tangible and _alive_ beneath his fingers. He _feels_ it. He hasn't felt anything like this in so long. It's overwhelming. Tommy is cold to the touch, the pale skin of his bare arms wet from rain water. ( _Jesus, does this kid own a coat? A jacket? Anything of the sort?_ ) Feeling again is so foreign, but Tommy is so, so familiar. He lets out little sniffles and sobs, muffled by the heavy wool of Wilbur's sweater, his shaking hands gripping the mangled mess of the back of his coat. Wilbur makes his second mental note of the day; Find new clothes. The giant hole in his outfit isn't doing much to keep the cold out. ( _Which is something he also feels now. Wilbur has never felt so happy to freeze half to death._ )

Holding Tommy in his arms, a strong sense of relief washes over him, like the waves over the sands of Logstedshire's shore. Wilbur hasn't held his brother since...god, when was the last time he _actually_ held Tommy? Certainly not when he was a ghost, transparent arms incapable of giving his brother something as small as a high five, let alone a hug. Realistically, the last time he held Tommy would have been in the very beginning of Pogtopia. Months ago.

The night they found the ravine, the cold had been their greatest foe. After the reality of their situation had set in, and their panicked breaths had subsided, Wilbur had suggested they get some rest. The older male fell asleep next to the campfire, back pressed against the cold, stone wall, Tommy tucked into his side. In that moment, Wilbur had never wanted to let Tommy go. After that, Wilbur doesn't think they spent another comforting moment together. His past actions disgust him, but he won't be like Ghostbur. He won't be like everyone else. He won't brush his own actions aside. He won't blame anyone else. As soon as he gets the chance, he's going to talk things out with Tommy, apologise. He doesn't want Tommy's forgiveness, but perhaps he can gain his understanding. 

"Tommy…" He gently calls. The boy raises his head to lock eyes with Wilbur, and _god_ , tired is a look he's seen on Tommy many, many times ( _When he'd pulled an all nighter reading about flowers in their family library, learning how to make a flower crown to impress Tubbo. The days which followed his turns to keep watch at night in L'Manberg. Every night spent in Pogtopia.)_ but never like this. Never to this extent. He runs his thumb gently over the dark purple bag under Tommy's left eye, and watches as he leans into the touch. 

"Let's get you inside, yeah? It's freezing, Toms." Wilbur receives a small nod and a ghost of a smile for his efforts. He begins leading Tommy through the front door of his dirt house, while a single thought pushes itself to the forefront of his mind.

He's going to fucking _murder_ whoever did this to his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started writing this before the resurrection streams so that's why the circumstances of the resurrection are different :^)


	2. Protection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight warning for dream's manipulation towards the beginning of the chapter. stay safe!

The very day that Tommy has been working towards is upon them, and Wilbur is horrified to see that they've been defeated.

The battle lasted longer than anyone had expected, Tommy, Tubbo and Quackity holding out for a considerable amount of time against Dream, Wilbur firing arrows from a vantage point a few meters away. Eventually, though, as all fights do, it comes to an end.

The battleground is quiet, the fight having come to a standstill. Each side stands their ground opposite each other, bystanders standing close by, watching with a sick satisfaction as Tommy and his allies tire out, helpless against Dream's forces. Quackity lays on the ground a few meters away from the others, blood gushing from a wound on his upper arm, leg twisted in a way that doesn't look natural. In front of him stands Tubbo, looking just as worse for wear. Blood soaks the front of his shirt, the red dark against the soft green. He lost his chestplate just moments ago. The boy is reluctant to lower his bow, aimed over Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy stands in front of them both, gripping his sword in his trembling hand. Fresh blood trickles from a nasty cut just above his eyebrow. The hand not holding the sword hangs limply at his side, and Wilbur knows it's broken. Despite this, Tommy stands before his friends protectively, staring down Dream, who looks completely unbothered. As if this fight is a minor inconvenience for him. Wilbur wants nothing more but to punch that ugly fucking mask right off his face. The two seem frozen in time, until Dream lets out a sigh, leaning on the hilt of his sword. His expression is unreadable, but his body language reeks of disappointment. Tommy seems to tense up at the mere sight if it. 

"I didn't want to do this, Tommy," Dream's voice carries across the land, dripping with disdain. Wilbur readies himself. "But you know the drill. Armour and weapons in the hole."

Wilbur doesn't know what he expects Tommy to do, but the moment he starts stripping off his armour, faster than he's ever seen Tommy carry out any task, Wilbur knows something is so, so wrong. To Wilbur's surprise, his brother digs the hole  _ himself _ , ignoring Tubbo and Quackity's pleads, and Wilbur watches as the armour and weapons Tommy had grinded weeks for meet the bottom of the pit with a devastating clang. 

Dream, the sick bastard,  _ laughs _ . He laughs at Wilbur's traumatised brother. Cold and uncaring. He laughs as if he hadn't expected Tommy to comply, and he laughs as if he couldn't be happier at the outcome. He laughs at Wilbur's brother, who stands with his head down, eyes directed at his feet. The image makes Wilbur's blood boil. White, hot rage courses through him. All he can see is red.  _ How dare you _ , he wants to scream.  _ How fucking dare you _ . Fuck Dream for taking advantage of Tommy's trauma. Fuck Dream for ruining what they've been working towards for months. Fuck Dream for even thinking of manipulating and traumatising his brother in the first place. Fuck Tubbo for choosing L'Manberg over Tommy. Fuck Tubbo for exiling him. Fuck Tubbo for leaving his brother for dead. Fuck Philza for forgetting that he has a fucking second son. Fuck Philza for pushing Tommy aside in every situation possible. Fuck Philza for never being there for them. For practically leaving Wilbur to raise Tommy alone. Fuck Technoblade for destroying their home, their country, Tommy's hope. Fuck anyone and everyone who has ever hurt Tommy. Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them,  _ fuck _ ! He can't take it anymore. 

He doesn't even notice he's wielding the axe until he's standing behind Dream, swinging it in a large, vengeful arc. 

The glowing netherite embeds itself in the unprotected skin of Dream's neck. The green bastard falls to the ground, fumbling with the weapon he knows he can't remove. It's sickening, and satisfying, and horrifying all at once. Wilbur has never felt so at peace. 

It's foolish to hope that this is Dream's final life, and when his body disappears in a cloud of smoke, his fears are made true. Wilbur still finds solace in the fact that he's  _ dead _ . He's finally dead, and he won't be bothering them any time soon. He carefully lifts two music discs from the pile of belongings, and rushes towards the only person that matters, ignoring the faint gasps of the crowd, a scream that must be Sapnap or George.

With the hand not holding the discs, he reaches to cradle Tommy's face, smearing more blood across his pale cheek.

"We did it, Tommy. We won." Wilbur whispers, with as much of a smile he can muster. It's a feeble attempt at happiness, and to his credit, Tommy tries his hardest to copy. He lasts all of five seconds before he breaks down, hiccupping sobs shaking his body, but he's still smiling. He's alive, and he's smiling, and really, that's all Wilbur could ever ask for. 

He gathers the boy into a warm embrace, burying his face into Tommy's messy hair. Wilbur's eyes burn with unshed tears, so instead he covers it up with soft words and comforting hands.

"You're okay, you're safe now. I made sure of it. He isn't going to hurt you as long as I'm around, I promise you…" He whispers into Tommy's hair, his tone laced with untold apologies and promises. Promises of a better life, of a brighter future. Of happiness and comfort and warmth. Promises to bring Tommy everything he missed in his childhood. Promises to care. He vows to Tommy, and to himself, to give his brother a better life. The life he deserves. He says everything he wants to say in those few sentences, and Tommy nods against his chest, as if he understands it all. 

If it were up to Wilbur, he would stand here forever comforting Tommy, but the sound of someone clearing their throat snaps him back to reality. His grip on Tommy tightens almost subconsciously. 

"Will…" A voice calls, unsure but firm. And oh, of  _ course _ it's Philza. Right when he thinks he has everything he needs to keep Tommy happy.

He feels the way Tommy presses himself closer, feels the way his good hand fumbles to form a tighter grip on the back of Wilbur's sweater. Wilbur raises his head, and meets the eyes of their father. 

_ Father _ , Wilbur muses, is not the right word for Phil. Far too kind. Far too safe. No, Phil...Phil is anything but a father to Wilbur, and he refuses to let Phil hold that title over Tommy. 

" _ What _ ." Wilbur grits out. All those years left alone, and  _ now _ he decides to step in? Right when Wilbur doesn't want him to? Pretty fucking convenient. Phil, to Wilbur's satisfaction, seems taken aback by the edge in his tone. Wilbur briefly allows himself to wonder what Phil had expected. 

"I just- Are you okay, son?"

"Don't  _ fucking _ call me that!!" Wilbur is seething. Wilbur is fire and wrath and vengeance and betrayal. Wilbur is the devil himself, and judgement day is upon them. "How dare you call me that name when you won't even so much as glance in Tommy's direction!?" Wilbur thinks it's fucking comical. Even after that comment, Phil still refuses to look at his youngest. Wilbur has half a mind to shake the boy in front of Phil's face. 

"How could you fucking forget about him!? I was dead and I spent more time with him during his exile than you did!! You left him for dead. Where were you!? Where were you when Tommy was getting tormented and manipulated by Dream!? Where were you when Tommy almost killed himself!?" Wilbur is hysterical. Wilbur is pain and anguish and loss. Wilbur is a man unhinged, spurred on by the harsh sobs of his baby brother, and the frightened look of the man he no longer considers his father. "I'll tell you where you were,  _ Philza Minecraft _ . You were off with Technoblade. Building cabins and looking after turtles in the snow. You chose him over your own sons. But that's not a fucking surprise, is it!? You always choose him over us! I practically had to raise Tommy myself while you and Technoblade were off doing whatever the fuck it is that you do when you're abandoning your kids!!" 

"Will, come on-"

"No!! I don't want to fucking hear it!! All you do is make excuses!! I'm done with it, Phil. I no longer consider you my father, and I would be shocked if Tommy thought differently. Why don't you go back to your new family? You sure wasted no time in replacing us." By the end of it, Wilbur is almost panting. He feels exhausted. He feels powerful. He revels in his small victory for a moment, until his attention is drawn to the gentle tug on his sleeve. Tommy is looking up at him.

Despite his dishevelled appearance, Tommy looks to him with perhaps more determination than he possessed at the beginning of the battle. He looks as if he's seeking Wilbur's approval ( _a look Wilbur has gotten well accustomed to, even if Tommy doesn't realise he's doing it_.) and Wilbur doesn't know what he wants, but he nods anyway. He trusts Tommy enough to make good decisions for himself. 

Slowly, Tommy turns to Phil, and Wilbur rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. A sign that he's there, that he's supporting, that Tommy isn't alone. Wilbur would think Tommy's tense posture relaxing minutely was a trick of the light if he wasn't paying such close attention. 

Finally, Phil takes in the sight of his youngest son. Worse for wear, dead on his feet, but with the same fire in his eyes he's carried with him since day one. 

Tommy squares his shoulders, tilts his chin up, and puts on the steadiest voice he's capable of.

"Leave us alone, Phil. Isn't that what you do best?"

Tommy delivers the final blow to Wilbur's frenzy, and Wilbur has never been more proud.

Phil, much to Wilbur's satisfaction, looks devastated.  _ Good _ . Wilbur hopes he hurts as much as Tommy does daily. Wilbur hopes he feels the sharp point of a sword pierce his chest like Wilbur did. Wilbur has unleashed the wrath and fury he's pent up over years and years of his life. And he isn't done yet.

"As for the rest of you," Wilbur hisses, surveying the crowd that has gathered around them. "Are you that deluded that you blame your problems on a child!? You send them into wars and put them in charge of countries, and you're surprised when they make mistakes!! How could you let this happen!? Look at them!! They're traumatised!! And you think it's your job to 'teach them a lesson'!? Your lessons consist of exiling them, manipulating them, destroying their homes!! Can't you see that they need help!? Shame on you all!!"

By the end of it, his breathing is laboured, and his hand is gripping Tommy's shoulder tighter than he'd like. He forces his fingers to loosen, and Tommy's presence reminds him to breathe. He composes himself, though the blazing fire in his eyes remains.

"Me and Tommy will be going away for a while. Don't make any attempts to follow us, you will not be welcomed." Tommy releases a little relieved breath, and his trembling hand rests over Wilbur's steady one, which still resides on his shoulder. Wilbur knows he's made the right decision. "The only people allowed to visit will be authorised by Tommy. Other than that, I expect you to stay the fuck away."

Wilbur takes his leave, Tommy by his side. They make it a few meters before Tommy speaks up. His voice wavers slightly, but there's the familiar glint of determination in his eyes.

"Are you sure you're okay with this? I mean- those are your friends- surely you don't want to leave them. I don't want you to leave because of me, I'll be fine on my own, I swear-"

"Tommy, quiet." Wilbur cuts him off, effectively preventing the boy's imminent panic. "Those fuckers didn't even give me a grave. They can rot in hell for all I care."

It's a shit joke, but for what it's worth, it pulls a laugh from Tommy, and really, that's all Wilbur has ever wanted.


	3. Safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much needed fluff for the traumatised brothers!!
> 
> not very happy with this chapter bc i suck at writing fluff but it was much needed!!

"Wilbur!!" Tommy calls out, his voice carrying through the entire house. "Can you come here, please!!"

Tommy has been cooped up in their shared room for days, only exiting to complete the chores Wilbur sets for him, and for daily meals. Despite his insistence that  _ 'Everything is okay, big man! _ ', Wilbur still worries. He worries a lot. 

It's been four months since they left the lands of the DreamSMP. Four months since they built a small cottage in a dark oak forest, made from stone brick and cobblestone. Four months of Tommy's healing. It's nice, Wilbur thinks. They're isolated, but not in the way they were during the Pogtopia days. Not like during Tommy's exile. No, this time, it's voluntary. They aren't banned from the DreamSMP ( _ Although Wilbur is sure Dream would love that. _ ), but they haven't returned once. Maybe they will one day, but for now, they're happy where they are. 

Each day, Wilbur wakes up early, and tucks Tommy back into the blankets he's kicked off in his sleep. He tends to the animals, gathers the eggs from the chickens into a small basket, and collects a bucket of fresh water from the stream nearby. He makes breakfast while watching the sunrise through the window, then sets about waking his brother up.

Waking Tommy is a slow process. It's gentle, and calm. Wilbur wants to be everything Dream wasn't during his exile. Everything Wilbur wasn't during Pogtopia. He starts by brushing the hair from Tommy's forehead with careful fingers, carding his hands through the blonde mess. Wilbur hums a simple tune, loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough that it doesn't startle his younger brother. Eventually, Tommy's eyes flutter open. Wilbur is graced with a sleepy smile, and a tired "Morning, Wilby."

From there, the day begins. They eat breakfast together, sometimes in the garden if the weather calls for it. They laugh and joke, and Tommy screams about one topic or another. 

When breakfast is finished, Wilbur gives Tommy a list of chores for the day. In the beginning, Wilbur had done everything in his power to ensure Tommy didn't do anything to help out, but as time went on, he realised that menial tasks were exactly what Tommy needed to keep him out of his depressive state. Mining, farming, collecting resources. Anything to take his mind off of his darkest thoughts. It's easy to see how his mental state has improved. 

Some days, they get visitors. Tubbo, Ranboo, Ponk, Captain Puffy and Awesamdude are among the regulars, bringing gifts and good spirits. Wilbur, to the best of his abilities, tolerates them. They're the better of Tommy's friends, he thinks. These are the days Tommy is the loudest, and the days he falls asleep earlier.

Half way through the day, they have lunch together, and afterwards they share each other's company. They play games, and sing, and Wilbur teaches Tommy the guitar ( _ He's not the best, more suited to piano, but when he looks to Wilbur, seeking approval, Wilbur smiles and tells him he's the best he's ever heard _ .) 

When darkness begins to fall, they eat their final meal of the day, and watch the sunset together out on the porch, one of Tommy's discs playing softly in the background. It's sweet. It's  _ home _ . More so than their childhood home had been. More so than L'Manberg, Pogtopia, Logstedshire. It's home, and it's safety.

The nights, however, are Wilbur's least favourite part of the day. Nightmares plague them both. It's a wonder that between the two of them they manage to get any sleep at all. More often than not, they end up in the same bed, and Wilbur holds Tommy in his arms until they both calm down. 

Morning comes, and the day repeats. The repetitive motions are soothing for the both of them. Such a stark contrast to the unpredictable days of war. It's peaceful, and Wilbur doesn't understand why Tommy has begun to avoid their days together. 

Maybe, Wilbur has done something wrong. He's not like Ghostbur. He doesn't forget. But  _ maybe _ , there's something he's missed. Something he doesn't even realise he's doing. Before he panics, he reminds himself that Tommy would tell him. Tommy wants to talk to him, right now, and Wilbur can't leave him waiting. 

Wilbur makes his way up the wooden staircase, purposely making his steps noticeable, so Tommy is alerted of his presence. He knocks on the furthest door from the stairs, and is met with Tommy's bright voice.  _ Not what he expected _ . 

"Wilbur! Come in, I have something to show you!!" 

Curiosity piqued, Wilbur enters the room, and finds Tommy standing in the centre with the biggest grin on his face.

At Tommy's feet lay a mess of fabric and string.  _ It's blue _ , Wilbur notes, a colour that is prevalent throughout the entire house. The worry leaves Wilbur's face, and is replaced with confusion. 

"You've been working so hard lately, and you do so much for me, so I- uh...I made you this-" He sounds nervous, and he's sheepishly hiding something behind his back. If it were any other situation, Wilbur would laugh, but with the way Tommy is looking at him, like he owes him the world, he can't bring himself to make a single sound.

As if he'll change his mind if he doesn't get it over with, Tommy shoves a small, soft item into Wilbur's hands. Red blooms across his cheeks as he shuffles his feet, watching for a reaction. 

The item Wilbur holds is about the size of a small loaf of bread. A poorly made plush of a sheep, made from scraps of blue fabric and wool. The stitching is messy, and the buttons of the eyes are two different sizes, and it's the most beautiful creation Wilbur has ever seen. He can almost tell by touch that the plush uses fabric from their L'Manberg coats, and the remains of the first L'Manberg flag. It's so heartwarming, and so thoughtful, and it makes Wilbur's chest feel full. It's  _ Friend _ . It's not long before Wilbur is crying, salty tears rolling down his cheeks. He smiles. He smiles because Tommy made this. Tommy made this for  _ him _ . Sacrificed days to make something so meaningful. He smiles because he couldn't ask for a better brother.

"Come on, big dubs, don't cry. It's not that bad, is it?" Tommy jokes, but Wilbur can't even find it within himself to laugh. He pulls Tommy into a hug, Friend clutched tightly in his hand, trying to communicate through his actions rather than words how much this means to him.

"Thank you, Tommy." He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of Tommy's head. His brother wraps his arms around his torso, and smiles into his chest. 

In that moment, in their little cottage in the middle of nowhere, Wilbur knows that they'll be okay.


End file.
